


say what you need

by harlequindreaming (armydoctor)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M, dark undertones to certain personalities, i chose not to use archive warnings for a reason, moderate descriptions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 01:25:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armydoctor/pseuds/harlequindreaming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It runs like a mantra through her head.<br/><i>I should have checked, I should have checked, I should have checked.</i></p><p>Cross-posted <a href="http://theappledorean.tumblr.com/post/75471588939">from Tumblr.</a> Somewhat TEH/HLV compliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	say what you need

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted after a short conversation on Tumblr with boringyesleave. Apologies in advanced for any pain or tears.

**xxxxxxxxxx  
** **xxxxxxxxxx**

It runs through her head like a mantra, even as she shakes and tries not to make any noise. She'd trusted Sherlock, of course, she always trusts Sherlock, but still.

But still.

 _I should have checked, I should have checked, I should have checked,_ she berates herself as Sebastian, grinning wolfishly, presses the gun to the back of her neck.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

When Sherlock asks her, there are no hesitations, which is really just proof of how far gone she is. For a time she'd been able to sell the lie that she was just playing both sides, even to herself. But the light from the hospital corridor illuminates Sherlock, throws him into sharp relief (the cut of his cheekbones, the circles under his eyes) and Molly knows she can't keep faking any longer.

"What do you need?" she asks, and again when he dodges an answer. She grips her bag strap to stop herself from trembling. Sherlock looks so very lost.

"You."

**xxxxxxxxxx**

"It's really quite simple, Molly-mouse," Jim says, coming up from behind her to wrap his arms around her waist. She doesn't need to turn around to know Seb's eyes are narrowed, shoulders gone ever so slightly rigid. It doesn't matter how many times she explains she  _isn't interested._ "I just need this one teensy little favour to round off my plan."

His voice has the honey-velvet tone he uses to sweet-talk clients. She adores him, admires him, her dearest childhood friend; has, ever since he and Sebastian had thoroughly trounced the boys who'd sent her crying. Jim is deliciously cunning and terrifyingly smart, with a ruthlessness that's only tempered by his playful streak. She loves it. The saccharine syllables wash over her and just like every time before, she's drawn into his next game.

"What do you need, Jim?" There's a soft exhale of self-satisfaction against her shoulder. Jim turns his head, buries it into her neck; Molly doesn't shiver. One corner of her mouth ticks up the barest hint in a smile.

"You."

**xxxxxxxxxx**

_Just another one of our games,_ Jim had assured her, mischievous glint in his eyes. That was what they'd always called them,  _games,_ with London as the board and they three the key players. Molly revels in every jolt of vindictive pleasure, every time she squirrels away another body or performs another cover up. The police come with their inane questions and she answers politely, every word a cover up for the running line of  _they're_ _stupid stupid so stupid_ in her head.

Then Jim introduces her to Sherlock, and suddenly there's someone else in her world who isn't stupid. He doesn't see through her façade of carefully played timidity, but he does see everything else.

He's  _interesting_ and quite possibly the best present Jim's given her (even if she knows in the end, Jim only wants Sherlock for himself).

Molly should hate him. She should loathe the way he tries to play her, string her along with empty flirtations and half-arsed compliments, bend her to his will. Sometimes she does, and then she sees the way his eyes dissect bodies and glean the cause of death from nothing more than a glance.

Jim never understood her fascination with death. For him that was when the fun stopped, because people no longer played when their bodies were empty. Morgues and corpses are Molly's domain, and all her life she's been content to play there by herself.

But then Sherlock comes sweeping in and he  _understands._

Molly watches him, watches and watches, and the first time he whips a corpse in front of her, her breath catches.

She can't look away after that.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Jim is tangled up with Seb when she slips inside their room, both of them asleep in the pale light of dawn. They're still the only two people to whom he's willingly showed that sort of vulnerability, and Seb more so than her. It almost breaks her heart to do this, as she watches them there, Jim's head rising and falling minutely where he has it laid on Seb's chest.

The gun is there, waiting, on the dresser. It's remarkably easy to fill in the blanks with bullets.

There's no one last, lingering look before she slips back out and gets ready for the rest of her role for the day. She takes a moment to stand outside the door and think her apologies, and then she leaves.

It's remarkably easy to forget that Sebastian Moran used to be a soldier, and will always be a light sleeper. Then again, with Molly, it's remarkably easy to forget Seb, period. Jim - like Sherock - tends to take up all the space in the room like light.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Sherlock works through cases like Molly works through bodies, and it's better than any game Jim's ever played with her. Sherlock understands death, finds the evidence under its grisly surface and teases it into stories, truths. He examines bodies and finds every last thing she's noticed (she watches for it, waits for it, has a little mental checklist in her head and every item ticked off is like a spark).

He's gorgeous, he sets her pulse racing, and Molly wants him for herself. 

She knows she's lost when Jim brings them to the pool, and has Sebastian aim a rifle at Sherlock's chest. She's still watching, only watching, and she finds herself not wishing Sherlock dead.

 _Not him,_ she almost says, and claps her hands to her mouth.

_Anyone but him._

**xxxxxxxxxx**

"You didn't think I wouldn't notice," Jim purrs, sitting in front of her with that smile on his face, that cat-with-the-mouse smile he always wore when he was having his fun. Molly looks at him and searches his eyes for the glint of mischief, the twinkle of  _just another game, Molly-mouse. Another bit of fun._

She finds nothing but fury.

"Pity," Jim goes on, and Sebastian's grip never wavers from where he has his weapon trained on her skin. "You've always been so  _smart,_ so deliciously twisted. A girl after my own heart."

 _You gave him to me,_ she wants to scream, wants to project into his brain.  _You gave me someone who understood, and then he stopped being yours and became mine instead._

"And I played along, I let you have your fun." Jim's eyes flick up to Sebastian. The sound of a gun cocking frightens Molly like nothing Jim has ever done. "But I've had enough now."

Jim leans forward in his chair and the cat-with-the-mouse smile disappears. He doesn't need it now. Molly-mouse is just where he needs her.

"Daddy's had enough now."

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Molly stands at the window and waits to hear the gunshot, eyes closed and on the verge of a prayer. She can't see John from where she is, or Seb, but she knows enough of Jim's games to know each piece will play its part perfectly, all except her. She's a monkey wrench now, throwing herself between precisely calculated gears and pinions.

The shot fires. She's dozens of feet below them, but Molly fancies she hears the body fall down with a thud.

There's precious little time to mourn the man who was her dearest friend before Sherlock comes smashing through the window, all a whirl and finesse for someone who's supposed to be dead. The carabiner unsnaps and he ruffles his hair and she wants to ask but he kisses her.

The question of whether Jim is truly dead dies on her lips at the touch of Sherlock's. His hands on her face are so very warm.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

She should have asked. Broken off, for just a second, pulled back and said something. Or after, when the body had served its use and Molly had been to harried to do more than zip it up and lock it away.

She'd assumed Seb had merely stolen the body. She'd assumed he'd stayed away in grief. She'd assumed too many things and now she's paying for it. Jim never liked stupid things.

"Oh, Molly-mouse," Jim sighs, and she tries to pretend there's actual regret in his words. "Why did you have to get in my way."

 _Because of him._ Molly's seen the way Jim looks at Sebastian when he thinks no one else sees him, and knows her friend understands. He hates it, in the same way he hates things when they don't go as he wishes, but he understands.

_You look sad when he can't see you._

Jim gets up and leaves the room. He doesn't stay for one last glance, either.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

The sole hint at sentiment between the three of them is this: Sebastian only fires one shot.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

She tells Sherlock only once, in the dark of her flat when he's asleep. He's painfully thin, back in London only one night, in between flights and missions. The streetlight filters through her curtains to fall over his naked skin, glossing over scars and smoothness alike. She touches one, traces it over lightly; he doesn't stir.

"We grew up together," she tells him quietly, one finger drawing small circles on Sherlock's hip. "For the longest time, he and Seb were all I had."

Her hand moves up to brush some errant curls from his forehead. He doesn't look peaceful, even in sleep. 

"You said it was because he didn't think I counted." Molly smiles a little, thin and bitter, watching Sherlock sleep.

"He didn't think I counted because he didn't know I loved you."

**xxxxxxxxxx**

The clip plays all over London, a few seconds looping over and over. It's enough to terrify even the British government as they make a call to Mycroft Holmes.

In hindsight, Molly thinks it is only because she is still shattered from last night's goodbyes that she doesn't notice the figure in her morgue lab until it's too late.

Sebastian's eyes are cold and unforgiving as he pounces for her, but Jim is smiling widely as his little tiger-cat catches Molly-mouse.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

When Mycroft tells Sherlock, it takes him three whole minutes to recover from shock before realizing who's in danger the most. Even then, even with Mycroft putting out a Do Not Retain order and breaking legal speed limits, he's too late.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

It's just come light and Molly pads out of the bedroom to find Sherlock in the living room, watching the early morning news. A week after his fake suicide and it's still making headlines.

She watches him for a few minutes before crossing the room and laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. He startles, then looks up at her sheepishly.

"Come back to bed, Sherlock," she says with a soft smile, and Sherlock holds her gaze a few more heartbeats before nodding his assent. She leads him back to the bedroom, until the telly becomes so much white noise and she's carding fingers through his hair.

He leaves three days later.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

What Molly doesn't know: Sherlock had been awake and listening, holding still so as not to interrupt. He waits until it's long after she's fallen back asleep, and then sits up.

"I love you, too."


End file.
